An Accidental Hero
by Moore12
Summary: Plagued by guilt after the battle of Manhattan, Clint returns to SHIELD and takes on a string of increasingly dangerous solo missions as a sniper. He refuses to return home to his family and won't entertain any requests to join the Avengers. Who will convince him that he's a hero, not a monster? Set after The Avengers. Reviews always appreciated.
1. Part I

**An Accidental Hero**

 _Part I_

Clint can feel the heat radiating off the ground, but he ignores it, as he has been for the last 27.5 hours. Blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes because he can't afford to move, he watches his target through the scope of his rifle. His finger curls around the trigger and squeezes.

Before his target hits the ground, Clint is on the move. A glance at his watch tells him that he has less than nine minutes to get to the evac point, located five blocks to the northwest. In the past, he wouldn't have been afraid to be late. Coulson would have his back, recognizing that a sniper doesn't always have the luxury of conforming to a rigid schedule. But, now, he's terrified. Since he was cleared to return to the field three months ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. has left him to fend for himself twice when he missed his evac. He knows why and hasn't complained, not even when they abandoned him in Siberia for nearly two weeks during the heart of winter.

Somehow, he makes it to the evac point with a minute and a half to spare without attracting any unwanted attention. Spotting the beige Jeep Wrangler he was told to look for parked at the very edge of the abandoned industrial complex, he jogs over to it. The doors click unlocked when he reaches it, and he climbs into the backseat.

The agent assigned to pick him up today is none other than Agent Jeremy Danielson; if Clint wasn't suddenly so damn exhausted, he would have told him to pull over and walked back to the base himself. "Agent Barton," Danielson finally says when they're rolling through the streets he just sprinted through, regarding him with barely masked disdain through the rear-view mirror, "I was told to inform you that your quinjet will be leaving at precisely 0500 tomorrow."

"Water," he only croaks in response as he slumps further into his seat, letting his chin fall to his chest as the adrenaline that he's been running on for the last 10 hours drains away. "Need water."

"I didn't bring any so you'll have to wait until we get back to base," Danielson replies; his voice is neutral, but his cold eyes betray that he's enjoying watching Clint suffer. Many at S.H.I.E.L.D. do these days, and Clint doesn't fault them. He can't.

"It's for you," Danielson says flippantly, and suddenly a phone is flying at him. Clint curses when his reaction time is too slow, and the phone smacks him in the face, causing Danielson to snicker.

"Barton, have you finished making your damn point yet?" Fury's voice accosts him the moment he puts the phone to his ear.

"Hello to you too." Clint chokes back a cough. He can't sound weak in front of Fury, not after everything that's happened. "Not even gonna ask how the mission went? 'Cause it…"

"I know how it went already, Hawk _ass_. You're not my only set of eyes on the ground," Fury cuts him off, clearly not amused. "All I care about is whether you've finished making your point yet."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Clint plays dumb. He knows exactly what Fury is talking about, and he doesn't want to go down that road. Not yet. Probably not ever.

To Clint's surprise, Fury just heaves a sigh. "Look, Barton, you haven't gone home in over four months. If putting you on an indefinite leave of absence is the only thing that will…"

"No," Clint snaps, so harshly that Danielson jumps in the front seat. Clint would have laughed if he wasn't being quickly seized by a blind panic. "We had a deal."

"We did have a deal, Barton," Fury admits. Clint's good at reading people—it's a large part of the job he does to put food on the table—but he can't figure out what Fury is after. "I've held up my end of the bargain, putting one of my best assets at risk in the process. And you haven't. You haven't done either of the things I asked of you."

Clint snorts. He can't help it. "Permission to speak freely, _sir_?"

Danielson squirms in the front seat at Clint's words, but Clint ignores him. He doesn't care if the agent reports back to the others that he had the nerve to mock Fury, confirming what they all think they know about him. His reputation is already in tatters, and if his taking every damn borderline suicide mission nobody wants hasn't changed that, it's never going to be repaired.

"Barton, you know you don't have to ask," Fury replies, and Clint can hear the frustration dripping off of each word.

"If this is really about the Avengers Initiative, you of all people should know I don't play well with others." For some reason, Clint's words ring hollow. He swallows the lump that's formed in his throat and adds bitterly, "Besides, I was only there 'cause I know how to fly a damn quinjet."

Clint waits to be chewed out, but Fury is silent. Just as he's about to hang up, figuring that the call must have been dropped, or his boss broke another phone in a fit of rage, Fury says, "Barton, I don't know what else to tell you. I'd try to give you another pep talk, but I'm fresh out of ideas, and I don't want to waste my breath on you since I know you're not planning on giving me the time of day. I'll leave you at this: if you can't forgive yourself, nobody can."

The line goes dead before Clint can respond. Without thinking, he throws the phone to the floor, but then he sinks back into his seat. That's when he remembers—he really could use some water.

* * *

Clint sweeps the room the moment the door is shut and locked securely behind him. He checks the pantry (where his bow has remained stowed away in its case since Manhattan because he never goes in there anyway), the closet, the shower, underneath the bed, in every nook and cranny he knows that he could hide in on a job. Satisfied that he's safe, he sits down on the edge of his bed and pulls the picture from his pocket.

"Ah, honey, I'm sorry," he whispers, and part of him can't believe that he's talking to a damn picture when she's only a phone call (or a plane ride) away. After muttering a curse under his breath, he continues, "I…I just can't come home yet. I hope you understand. It's just…"

All he needs to do to recall why he can't go home is look at the wall across from his bed. When he returned to the base after Manhattan, he had found his room was destroyed—his mattress and pillows slashed, his bathroom mirror and favorite coffee mug shattered, his S.H.I.E.L.D-issued clothes torn and strew across the room. Nothing was left unbroken. And, on the walls in bright red spray paint, was every label he had applied to himself after waking up in the helicarrier. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but he couldn't fully erase them. Clint didn't ask to move, or even tell anybody about it, because he didn't want to cause any more problems than he already had.

Shivering to himself, even though the room is hovering around its usual sticky 83 degrees, Clint returns the picture to his pocket, slides down across the foot of the bed and curls in on himself until he's huddled in a tight ball. He stays like that until, mercifully, for the first time in roughly 39.5 hours, his eyes become too weighed down to open again. But then he dreams, as he always does, and probably always will…

 _The god is circling him, and he swallows hard, his gaze coming to rest on the floor because it feels somehow safer. He has defied his master, and he does not deserve to look him in the eyes. "I asked you a simple question, and you refuse to answer?" the god snarls, and the scepter flares in his mind, making the blue-filmed word sway dangerously and then spin in rapid circles._

 _It is enough to bring him to his knees, and he knows that is what the god wants so he stays there, even as the world begins to steadily level out. He coughs, swallowing the vomit that has risen into the back of his throat, and repeats, "That's classified, sir."_

 _The god's eyes blaze like the scepter in his hand. "Foolish, mortal," he snaps, and the world lurches. And then there is pain—his mind cracks and shatters—and he bites back the scream he knows the god wants to hear. If this is the end, and he knows it is the end, he is as certain of it as he is that he must obey the god, he will_ not _die screaming. He will_ not _tell…_

Clint snaps awake. The world is still spinning, but he manages to stagger to his feat and pull the pistol from the holster on his belt. It takes him a minute to realize that he's alone—he's alone in his room back at the base, and he has been since 0821 this morning after another successful solo mission. "Damn it, Clint," he mutters to himself when he catches his haunted reflection in the television set. And then, on an impulse, he punches the wall, right where the vandals had painted _MURDERER_ , and shouts, "Damn it, I can't do this anymore! I can't! I won't! God _damn_ it!"

He punches the wall again and again—long enough to make his knuckles bleed and hard enough to leave a few dents—and then sinks to the ground, exhausted, defeated, shattered. He stays like that the rest of the day, not moving an inch, not looking at anything but the memories playing on repeat in his mind.

* * *

Natasha corners him in the kitchen connected to the mess hall.

Using the air vents, Clint had navigated his way there to grab something to eat, whatever he could get his hands on without anybody seeing him. When he leaped down, landing a little less gracefully than he would have liked because his knees are still acting up, he turned around and saw her standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression neutral. "Knew you'd have to get something to eat eventually," she quipped, trying for levity but failing.

Clint responded by grabbing a bagel off of a nearby tray and stuffing it unceremoniously into the pocket of his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued jacket. Before he could vault onto the table and propel himself back into the air vents, Natasha caught him by the arm, her touch unnaturally gentle but still enough to make Clint recoil as if stung. He knew her well enough to see the hurt in her eyes when he edged more than an arms distance away, but he didn't care. The way he saw it, she should be grateful that he didn't make for the air vents again (even though he only did because something, call it experience, told him that he would deeply regret that decision). And that's why he's stuck here, barely listening to Natasha explain that _your team_ this and _your team_ that and _your team_ blah blah blah.

When she's done, she offers him a hopeful smile, which only makes him snicker. "'Tasha," he mutters, burying his fists in the pockets of his pants so she won't see that he's clenching them so hard his knuckles have turned a ghostly shade of white, "they're not _my_ team."

"Yes, _we_ are." Damn, she's so stubborn, Clint thinks. She's almost worse than Fury. "Clint, there's something you should know, need to know about the Avengers Initiative. Fury didn't want me to tell you, but I…I think it's time."

Clint notices the hesitation, but he's still curious, and he catches himself walking over to her. She's good, he thinks, stopping and then taking a step back because he's not about to get caught in this web. He's been Natasha's partner long enough to know how she operates—she's the master manipulator, preying on her mark's weaknesses, drawing them in with promises that she has no intention of fulfilling. And, right now, he's her mark, and he takes another step back when he realizes that Fury probably put her up to this because the timing is a little _too_ perfect.

"Fury put you up to this?" Clint snarls, and he notices for the first time that he's backed himself into a corner. He suddenly feels like one of the lions at Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders, trapped in the ring by its tamer, being baited into doing something it doesn't want to do. Once, in his third year at the circus, one of the lions lashed out, striking its tamer with its sharp claws. An arrow to the jugular took it down swiftly, humanely, and part of Clint wishes that he could suffer a similar fate.

"Clint…" Natasha begins, but her voice trails off. Then, she shakes her head and chirps, "Come on, Hawk _ass_ , Fury can't put me up to anything I don't want to do. You of all people should know that. Remember what I did to him when he tried to send us out a week after we got back from Budapest?"

He chuckles at the memory of Natasha waving the kitten-shaped flash drive she bought hours before from a Wal-Mart clearance bin at Fury, yelling, "If you make us go to the Ukraine, I'll leak _all_ your files to the _Daily News_ ," and it makes her smile. She continues, clearly emboldened by his reaction, "Look, Stark has been on my case lately, alright? He wants all the Avengers to stay at the tower, and all the Avengers includes you."

This again. Clint chuckles again, this time bitterly. Not this again. "Look, 'Tasha, I don't know where you got it in your damn head I'm an Avenger, but I'm _not_. I just flew the damn quinjet!"

His words are harsh. _Final_. She clearly got the message because she turns to leave. When she eventually replies over her shoulder, Clint can hear the waver in her voice, and he can't help but wonder if it's genuine or just an act to play on his emotions, "Clint, many years ago, this young, brash S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was sent to kill me. I never thought he'd stand a chance against me, but he managed to corner me in a back alley. I was bleeding, I was exhausted and, for the first time in my life, I was afraid. I thought he was going to kill me, but he made a different call. In my mind, he'll always be a _hero_ , even if he doesn't see himself that way and never really has."

Clint's mouth goes dry. He watches Natasha leave and doesn't try to stop her. As soon as she's gone, he flees back to the air vents. It's only when he's safely in his room—his hunger and the bagel stuffed in his pocket long forgotten—that he allows himself to truly consider what Natasha had said and if maybe, just maybe, she's right.

But all he has to do is look at the walls to know that she's not.

* * *

 _The boot crushes his hand before he can reach the discarded knife. The white at the edge of his vision surges forward, and he bites back a yelp because he knows that Jacques will only make this worse if he knows how much pain he's really in._

 _He curls in on himself, trying futilely to protect his already battered ribs, as the boot begins to kick him over and over. As the seconds turn into minutes, he lets out a gurgling sigh, and blood dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. If he's going to die here, and he knows that as a master swordsman Jacques could easily kill him if he wants to, he will_ not _go screaming. He will_ not _cry._

 _And then a hand grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. He can only watch in mute horror as Jacques's face morphs into the god's. "You are nothing," the god says, and he is suddenly frozen in place because the god deemed that it should be so. "You think yourself a hero? You are_ nothing _but a failed circus archer who was pitied_ _by a bumbling S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and…"_

 _He's not going to listen to this. It's just a dream. He_ knows _it's just a dream, and he_ has _to wake up._ He _has_ to wake up. Clint forces his eyes open and grabs the knife that he always hides under his pillow. Shakily, he gets to his feet and stalks through his room, checking each nook and cranny to make sure that his tormentors were really figments of his dreams. Only when he's turned on every light and swept the room a second time does Clint allow himself to slump down in the chair at his desk and bury his head in his hands.

It was just a dream, he tells himself again, but his breathing is ragged and his heart is pounding as if everything that he experienced during it had really happened. He curses under his breath when he realizes that he's soaked with sweat. Only when he manages to steady his breathing does he allow himself to look at the clock; it's almost 0330, which means he only has two hours until he was supposed to get up anyway. Heaving a sigh, he gets up and heads to the bathroom to take a shower, hoping it will wash away more than just his sweat. He already knows that it won't.

When he's finished, it's a little after 0400, and his stomach has started growling like a caged lion. Evidently, the stale bagel that he choked down yesterday wasn't enough to keep his hunger at bay. Every day but Sunday, the mess hall opens at 0500, largely to cater to agents who have to leave on missions early in the morning. Sometimes, when Betty is in a good mood, she'll open closer to 0430. More often than not, she'll only let her favorites grab something before its official opening time. Clint used to be one of her favorites. He can't say if he is now—he hasn't tried to take advantage of his status since Manhattan.

The clock reads 0421 when Clint gives into his hunger. He slips out of his room, stopping to jiggle the door handle five times to make sure that it's securely locked, and then makes his way through the deserted, dark hallways to the mess hall. He doesn't realize that he had broken into a run until he has to practically skid to a stop to avoid slamming into none other than Erik Selvig.

Should've just used the air vents, bird brain, Clint thinks bitterly as Selvig looks him over and asks, with a twinge of concern to his voice, "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

Clint shrugs and chirps, " _Some_ of us got to get up early for work." But then, suddenly, a blind panic seizes him because this doesn't make sense and maybe—no, no it can't be—he's still trapped in his dream and… Clint didn't intend to raise his voice, but he does anyway when he demands, "What the hell are _you_ doing here? Thought you got sent to the damn crazy bin."

The look Selvig gives him says _maybe you belong in the crazy bin_ , but he only cracks a smile and replies, "I was for a bit, but I got out recently. Fury brought me in a few days ago because he wanted my help with a project. And, before you ask, sorry, it's classified."

Oh. That makes sense. Burying his clenched fists in the pockets of his S.H.I.E.L.D-issued jacket, Clint shakes his head in a poor attempt to clear away some of his (stupid, irrational) panic. When that does nothing, he mutters, directing his gaze at the wall over Selvig's shoulder, "I, uh, yeah, that makes sense, uh, sorry if I…"

He doesn't get to finish because Selvig walks over and throws an arm around his shoulders. Clint instinctively flinches at the contact, but he doesn't jerk away; he already made enough of a scene as it is. "Come on, Barton, let's go grab some coffee. Sounds like you could use somebody to talk to."

Clint balks. He doesn't need anybody to talk to, and he hears himself blurt that out before he has a chance to think about what he's saying: "Look, uh, I'm good. I, I, uh, have to go. I'm supposed to leave at 0600, gotta get ready."

Selvig, to his credit, doesn't try to stop him when he pulls away and starts down the hallway. As he goes, Clint can hear what Selvig said about him, back when they were both blue-eyed puppets in the god's grasp, ringing through his ears— _he's got no soul, he's got no soul, he's got no soul_ —and he scrunches up his eyes in a futile attempt to make it to stop. And that's when he hears Selvig say, his voice filled with concern that Clint doesn't deserve, "Barton, talking about it, it helps. Believe me, I know. And I also know this: it's one thing to understand it wasn't you who did all those things and another thing entirely to accept it and allow yourself to heal."

Clint doesn't turn around. He keeps walking, biting his lip to keep from snapping a retort over his shoulder because, well, Selvig is right. He does know. He, more than anyone else, does understand, but that doesn't mean that he wants to talk to him. Right when he's about to turn the corner and make for the nearest air vent because it's safer to keep back to the room that way, Selvig calls, "And, Barton, you _did_ have a failsafe too. I saw it in action."

Clint breaks into a run and never looks back.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! This story will likely be either three or four chapters. It's set between The Avengers and Winter Soldier, for anybody who's curious. I know that Age of Ultron, in a sense, explained where Clint was during Phase II by giving him a family, but I don't think it's that simple. I can't see him wanting to put them at risk, and I feel like he would see himself, potentially, as a danger because of what happened with Loki. So this is my take on that scenario. I may have taken some liberties with the timeline, but I hope you'll forgive me.  
_

 _"An Accidental Hero" can stand alone as its own story. It can also be viewed as a companion piece to "Hide & Seek." There are references to "Hide & Seek" in here, but you don't need to read it to understand this because Hide & Seek is set after Age of Ultron (though I would appreciate you checking it out as well!). One thing you should know in advance is that my Clint is a composite character; I took elements from the movies, comics and even other FanFiction stories and blended them together. _

_Anyway, I'd appreciate reviews. Thanks so much for reading, and I look forward to hearing from you! ~Moore12_


	2. Part II

**An Accidental Hero**

 _Part II_

Clint has the routine memorized. His mark is more predictable than most, and he's grateful for that, especially considering that he was only given three days to work with and he's rapidly approaching his deadline. He doesn't even need to spare a glance at his watch to know that it's approximately 2030, which means that his mark will head upstairs for his nightly shower in 30 minutes.

Because he knows that he has time—his mark is right in the middle of watching some crappy reality show and is clearly hooked—Clint digs in his pocket and retrieves the picture. He can barely make out his family's faces in the inky blackness that envelopes his perch, but that doesn't matter. He doesn't need to; he sees them in his mind. Sucking in a deep breath, he wonders what they're doing now; did they treat themselves to Steak 'N Shake for lunch? Are they on their way to one of Cooper's t-ball games? Did Laura ever finish that painting she was working on when he left on his last mission?

Do they _really_ miss him?

You know they do, Clint thinks bitterly, shifting his weight because his right arm is starting to go numb. But they understand why you can't go home, and they're probably better off without you anyway. After stuffing the picture back into his pocket, Clint returns his undivided attention back to his mark. It begins to rain, and he ignores it. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but he doesn't pay it any mind. The clock starts ticking the moment the reality show's credits start rolling.

Clint watches as his mark gets up, turns off the television and disappears from sight, and he moves his finger onto the trigger and waits for him to reemerge in his bedroom window. Right when the mark does, the sky lights up with a flash of lightning, momentarily blinding him because he was so accustomed to the darkness. Instinctually flattening himself against the rooftop to stay in the shadows, Clint mutters a curse and blinks to clear the spots from his vision. Fortunately, his mark is still framed in the window, and his finger curls around the trigger and…

The bedroom door flies open and a boy, who can't be even five years old, rushes in, clearly terrified of the storm based on the tears in his eyes. A lump forms in Clint's throat as he watches his mark kneel to the ground and lift the boy into his arms. He holds him close for a few seconds and then whispers something in his ear, which makes the boy laugh through his tears. Finally, he deposits the boy on his bed and flips on the television to a cartoon channel.

Blinking against the suddenly driving rain, Clint lets his hand fall away from the trigger and takes a faltering breath. He can't do it. Not now. There was a reason he wanted to wait until nighttime, even though doing so put him at greater risk of missing his evac; he had to make sure his mark's son was nowhere nearby. So Clint waits for his mark to send his son back to his room. He waits even after the clock hits 2215, the time he was supposed to get to his evac point. He waits even though he's soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. He waits, but it never happens.

At 2300, the storm subsides. But the boy remains curled up against his father as a cartoon flickers on the television, watched only by the sniper on the rooftop across the street. Eventually, Clint heaves a sigh and pulls the picture back out of his pocket. It only makes him feel further away from his family than he did before.

* * *

"Damn it, Barton, you better have a good explanation for this," his latest handler—Copperton, almost like the sunscreen, if he remembers correctly—barks as soon as he calls him from the burner phone he purchased at a sketchy local electronics store as soon as it opened. "This is the _third_ time you've missed your evac and…"

"For the record, I missed the second one by _three_ minutes," Clint cuts in, resentfully. "And you haven't even heard me out yet."

Copperton sighs a little too dramatically for Clint's liking. And then he stabs him right in the back. "Quite honestly, Barton, I don't think anybody cares to hear your opinion these days."

"Oh yeah?" Clint snaps as a blind panic starts to overtake him because he knows where this conversation is going. "Well, you're _responsible_ for me. And, let me tell ya something, if you fuck this up because you refuse to listen to me, Fury'll have your head. Ya know that?"

Copperton snickers. In no time at all, his snicker morphs into hysterical laughter, the son of a bitch, like all of this is somehow funny when it's _not_. "What's so funny?" Clint demands, hardly aware that he's clenching his right fist so hard his nails are digging into his palm.

The bastard manages to compose himself enough to say: "You honestly think Fury cares about _you_? He's just trying to get a few more missions out of you before…"

Copperton doesn't get to finish that thought—somebody starts yelling at him in the background, her voice too muffled for Clint to make out—but he doesn't have to. Clint knows what he was about to say, and he sags under the weight of it. Slumping against the dishwasher in the safe house's kitchen that he's been pacing, he lets his chin fall to his chest and focuses on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He has to calm down. He can't do this right now. But, in the back of his mind, he hears the god taunting him, confirming every single one of his deepest insecurities, and he's about to scream when the phone crackles to life and he hears Hill order, "Barton, tell me what's happening."

After taking a deep breath, he does just that. Hill doesn't interrupt him, and that's almost worse somehow. Her silence is downright oppressive, and he's already weighed down enough as it is. By the end, Clint feels a powerful urge to apologize so he does without even stopping to think about what he's saying: "I'm…I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for this to happen. _Any_ of it. I… I just couldn't do it, okay? And don't make me your priority 'cause I'll be…I'll be _fine_ ; I'll get it done and hide out for…"

"Clint," Hill finally interrupts, and Clint's relieved, though he's a little off put by her use of his first name, "it isn't your fault. None of what happened is your fault, you hear me? And you can't let assholes like Copperton get you down. That's an _order_ , Barton."

Clint knows that Hill isn't talking about this botched mission. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbles, directing his gaze to the floor even though Hill isn't there to look in his eyes and see that he doesn't mean it.

Apparently, she picked up on it anyway. "Barton, let me ask you something. Would Fury have let you back into the field if he didn't trust you?"

Maybe, Clint almost says, Copperton's words now ringing in his ears like the god's did moments ago, but he bites his lip and answers, "No, ma'am."

"Right, he _wouldn't_." Based on her forcefulness, Hill sensed his uncertainty. "We trust you. We know it wasn't your fault. It's not like we trained you for gods and magic. And, Barton, I know you resisted. You want me to believe the world's greatest marksman would send a bullet right into a bulletproof vest?"

"I'm not at my best with a gun," Clint inadvertently whispers what he told the god when he challenged him about that incident, his vision blurring with the tears that he's never let fall. He fights them back because he doesn't plan to start now.

"Is that what you think happened?" Hill asks quietly, and Clint only silently curses himself. Clearly taking his lack of response as a yes, she continues, "Clint, you have to stop doing this to yourself. You need to focus on all the people who trust you, who care about you, and ask yourself what they think of you. And you want to know what I think? You didn't miss when you shot Fury in the chest. You didn't miss when you just grazed me before you stole the truck. You _didn't_ miss. And Loki…he punished you for it, didn't he?"

Clint's voice is rough when he replies, "I plan on finishing the job tonight. Don't worry about sending an evac right away. I can take care of myself."

To her credit, Hill simply says, the concern in her voice almost completely masked, "Don't doubt it, but I'll push to get you an evac tonight. Same time as last night, alright?"

"Yes, ma'am," Clint mutters, and he hangs up before she can say anything else. He needs to get some sleep before tonight, if he can.

* * *

 _The world stops spinning but is still glazed in sickening blue. Clint remains on his knees, panting, paralyzed, at his master's mercy. The animal part of him wants to clutch his head and howl in pain, but his master demands that he be silent now. Earlier, he knows, the god had wanted him to scream, but he had not given him that satisfaction._

" _You have heart," the god reflects to himself as the scepter flares again. On cue, the world turns sideways. Clint manages to momentarily squeeze his eyes shut against the pain, but the god pries them open up again. "You will look at me when I am speaking to you."_

" _Yes, sir," Clint replies, but his gaze stays directed at the floor because he knows that the god does not truly mean what he says. He wants him to look at the floor, as he will never_ _deserve to look his master in the eyes. He is nothing—a failed circus archer, a reluctant but capable criminal, a soulless sniper—and he was born only to kneel. He has always kneeled, first for his father, then for the swordsman and the archer, finally for Fury. And he_ always _will kneel, of that the god is certain._

" _Yes, you have heart," the god continues his monologue, circling Clint, the scepter glowing ominously. "That is why I chose you, little hawk. Because I demand loyalty and only those with heart can give this gift so freely, with so little regard for themselves. Yet, you have defied me. You_ share _your loyalty with others, even after I have enlightened you. So, I will ask you one_ last _time. Where does the hawk keep its nest, and how many call it home?"_

 _Clint shudders, and the world sways violently without the scepter flaring. His mouth begins to form their names (Laura, Cooper, Lila) and their location (outskirts of Iowa City, on a farm), but the words die before they reach his lips. He manages to bite his tongue, flooding his mouth with blood, and that gives him enough clarity to respond, "That's classified, sir."_

 _The scepter is now against his chest, and Clint knows what his master intends. A servant who does not obey is of no use, no value. Finally, the god shakes his head and heaves a sigh. "Well, it looks as if I have no use for you know,_ little _hawk. It is a shame. You could have been of such help to me."_

 _Clint's mouth starts to say their names and…_

Clint wakes screaming, his head cradled in his arms. Panicked, he pulls his knife and hurls it into the shadows, where the god must be lurking even now. It takes him a minute to remember where he is (safe house, just outside of Kiel) and what he's doing there (mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., take out an arms dealer connected to Hydra, reach evac point by 2215). When he's come to that realization, he hauls himself to his feet and sweeps the house, stopping only to pull the knife from the living room wall. Even though he knows that the house is clear, he can't stay there. The walls are closing in on him, and he can't breathe. He slept in his clothes so he's ready to go; nobody will even know that he was there (except for the slit in the wall, but who will check?).

Without a second thought, he grabs the bag containing his rifle and starts on his way to his perch. A glance at his watch tells him that he was asleep for less two hours. It hasn't stopped him yet and won't this time.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed the latest installment! Just a reminder that this story can be viewed as a stand alone or as a prequel to "Hide & Seek." I won't be finishing "Hide & Seek" until I complete this story, and one more I have planned on Clint's origin story, because they will give clues as to who the intruder was. _

_Anyway, I'd really love to hear your thoughts. And don't worry, the next chapter will be action-packed. Until next time. ~Moore12_


	3. Part III

**An Accidental Hero**

 _Part III_

 _His old man is yelling again. He's louder than he usually is, and Clint can hear each angry word, even from where he's hidden perched on the top shelf of the mud room's coat closet. He stuffs his fingers into his ears because he doesn't want to; they scare him, and he doesn't want to start crying because Barney told him that only_ babies _cry and he's_ not _a baby anymore._

 _Clint doesn't move, not when a bottle shatters, not when his mom screams, not when Barney shouts, "Leave her alone!" It's only after there's the distinctive thump of a hand hitting flesh and Barney lets out a sharp cry that he inches down to the ground and cracks open the door._

 _It creaks. Clint's breath catches in his throat, and he's suddenly face to face with his old man._

" _What do_ you _want?"_

 _His old man grabs him roughly by the arm and drags him the rest of the way out of the coat closet. Then, he slams him against the wall and roars directly in his face, "You_ will _answer me when I ask you a question, boy!"_

 _Clint doesn't know what to say. He's frozen, and he watches helplessly as his old man raises a hand and strikes him across the cheek. It stings, but he bites his lip to keep from making a sound. "Are you_ deaf _, boy? I asked you a question."_

 _Before Clint can tell him to stop hurting Mom and Barney, his old man disappears in a flash of blue light. In his place stands the god, in his full battle armor no less. Clint doesn't even have the chance to scream for help; the god places the scepter to his chest, and Clint kneels. "Yes, little hawk, you have_ always _kneeled. And you_ always _will."_

Clint blinks awake. Groaning as a spasm of pain seizes him, he reaches for his knife, but it's gone, and his hand is slick with blood. And that's when it all comes rushing back to him.

It hadn't taken long for everything to go to hell and back again. With the benefit of hindsight, he knows that he jumped the gun, but he wanted to get it over with while his target's son was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was because he rushed, maybe it was because he hasn't managed to sleep through the night since Manhattan, maybe it was because he _really_ isn't at his best with a gun—Clint doesn't know, not that it matters now—but he missed. He finished the job, yes, but his mistake gave his target just enough time to alert his cronies that there was a sniper nearby.

Clint took bullets to the side and shoulder before he saw them coming. After fighting them off, he fled to the sewers to ensure that he didn't put any innocent civilians at risk by starting a battle royal in the middle of the busy city streets. Once he eliminated his tail by throwing his knife through his throat, he pried open a manhole cover in a back alley and attempted to climb down the ladder. But he slipped and plunged the rest of the way to the ground, snapping his left leg.

Managing to shift so he's leaning against the wall, Clint digs into his pocket and produces the picture. As he looks at Laura, Cooper and Lila's faces, and comes to the realization that he'll never see them again, a single tear manages to leak out of his right eye and run the length of his face. Another quickly follows it. And then, for the first time since he was rescued by Coulson and brought to S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint allows himself to cry. "I-I'm…sorry," he whispers even though he knows that they can't hear him. "I-I…I love…you. I'm _so_ …"

An ugly, wet cough cuts Clint off, and his head sags against his chest. Before he passed out, he had managed to bind his wounds, but a glance at the bandages tells him that he's still bleeding out. He doubts that he'll be found in time; actually, he _knows_ that S.H.I.E.L.D. won't look for him. They'll declare him MIA and, after a month or two at the most pass, they'll change his status to KIA. He vaguely wishes that he had brought his burner phone with him, but he had dumped it in a trashcan on the way to his way to his perch, and he doubts that they would drop everything to come to his rescue. If he were them, he wouldn't. He missed, and that was _all_ he was good for anyway after what happened.

Seconds before the world mercifully fades away again, Clint sees a flash of red in the corner of his vision and feels a small, familiar hand clasp his.

* * *

 _Clint doesn't know how much time passes. His reality melds seamlessly with his nightmares, and he never knows where he is or who he's with. More often than not, his world is tinted a sickening blue. Sometimes, in his least lucid moments, he is certain that he really_ did _die and that he's been damned to hell. His ledger had been dripping red before_ _the god turned him against the people he cared about, who he would_ die _for in a heartbeat, and he knows that, even if he lived to be 105, he_ never _would_ _wipe his ledger clean, just as he couldn't erase the words stained on the wall of his room._

 _He screams when the rough hands prod him, his mind lost in another place, in another time. His eyes burn against the fluorescent lights that should be familiar but aren't because of the blue haze enveloping them. He hears somebody calling his name, begging him to stop, but he thinks that it's a trap so he screams louder._

 _Eventually, the world sways, and he is back in the bunker, and the god laughs at him and asks, "Tell me did, foolish mortal, did you_ honestly _believe that you could resist me? That I would not notice your silent rebellion? They call you Hawkeye for a reason, do they not? So, tell me, how you_ did _you manage to fail to eliminate the agents, as I ordered you?"_

 _He shifts nervously under his master's knowing gaze but does not answer. He bites down on his lip to clear his mind. Then, he lowers his head respectively and replies, "I'm not at my best with a gun, sir."_

" _Truly, is_ that _it?" his master sneers, and the world flips upside down, and he crumples to his knees as a white-hot pain blossoms in his temple and…_

"Clint? Clint can you hear me?"

Clint forces open his eyes. The world's still blurry, but at least it's not coated in blue anymore. Blinking against the harsh light, he goes to grab the knife that he keeps in his boot—it's a trap, he _knows_ it, he's been captured and they've done _something_ to mess with his mind—but he can't. Before he can thrash against his restraints, a gentle hand reaches down and cards a hand through his hair. "Clint, it's me, Natasha. It's okay. Look at me. You're okay. We have you."

"'Tasha?" he mumbles, and he's surprised by how thick his voice is. "'Tasha, where am I?"

"You're back at base," Natasha replies, still running her hand through his hair. He leans into her touch, allowing himself to take a breath and begin to accept that he _is_ safe, somehow. "You've been in and out for four days—had a pretty nasty infection, but your fever broke late last night."

Clint blinks a few times, mainly because, as he does, the world increasingly comes into focus, and he notices that his wrists are shackled to the bedrails with padded handcuffs. He groans, fairly humiliated, but he doesn't blame them. "Take off the cuffs?"

Natasha's lips slowly twist into a familiar smirk. "Only if you promise to _behave_."

" _Really_?" Clint groans again. "You go down _that_ road?"

"Now you sound like you," Natasha chirps. "I would _if_ I had the keys, which I don't because Fury thought you'd badger me into sneaking you out of the sick bay as soon as you woke up."

Clint glares at her, but she only laughs. "Sorry, Hawk _ass_ , but it looks like you're grounded for now."

Clint catches himself laughing with her, and, for a moment, everything is the way that it was _before_. As soon as he realizes what's happening—that Natasha got him to forget, even if only for a split second—the weight of his guilt comes crashing down on him again. And that's when he realizes that _none_ of this makes sense, and he demands, "You were _following_ me, weren't you?"

Natasha hesitates, clearly taken aback by his abrupt change in moods. When she replies, her words are careful, her tone neutral. "Yes, you could say that. Fury assigned me to be your backup in case anything went wrong."

Clint lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. "You guys didn't even trust me to finish a simple mission?"

"That's _not_ why I was following you, Clint." Natasha looks him dead in the eyes, as if willing him to understand. Clint looks over at his heart monitor to avoid her gaze.

"You know what's funny?" he blurts out, mainly to keep her from continuing to lie to him. "The _same_ people who couldn't trust me with a simple mission want me to be an _Avenger_ , think _they_ need _me_. A team of superheroes and gods _needs_ a guy who fights with a weapon from the _Stone Age_. It's fucking hysterical, don't you…"

"You're right," Natasha breaks in after taking a deep breath through her nose. He can see the hurt barely masked in her green eyes, but he doesn't really care. "They don't _need_ you. But they would— _we_ would love to have you, if it's what you want."

"What? Now you're going for reverse psychology?" Clint spits, and he's actually insulted that his partner, the person he trusts most in the world besides Laura and the kids, is blatantly playing him like he's her _mark_. "Sorry, _Romanoff_ , it's not gonna work on me."

Natasha shoots him a deadly look, one that's usually reserved for her marks. Clint can't help but gulp. "Look, _Barton_ , that's not what I'm doing. You should _know_ that. What I'm trying to say is…" She trails off and turns away for a second. When she continues, her voice has lost its edge, and there's a deep sadness in her eyes, "I'm not any good at this, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't, we _all_ shouldn't, have pushed you to do something you clearly didn't want to do. It doesn't matter what we think; if being an Avenger isn't what you want, we shouldn't make you do it. What I don't understand is what you _do_ want. Fury told me about your deal and…I just don't understand what you're trying to prove, Clint. So help me understand."

All the fight leaves Clint. He stares at his partner mutely for a minute or two, maybe more, weighing what she had said. He wants, more than anything in the world, to go home to his family, but he _can't_ , and that's that. Period. Before Cooper was born, back when he worked almost exclusively as a sniper on solo ops, he admitted to Laura that being a father _terrified_ him more than being sent on all of the dangerous missions Fury assigned. If he failed those, he would be the one who ended up hurt. If he failed as a father, like his father had failed him and Barney, he'd hurt the ones he loved.

And Clint _had_ failed. But, since he can't tell Natasha any of that, he admits instead, hating how childish he sounds, "I _want_ to be an agent." That's not even close to the whole truth, so he adds quietly, "I just…I just want things to go back to the way they were before."

Natasha offers him a smile but then shakes her head. "You know that won't happen, Clint. But, I _promise_ you, things could be even better if you would just let yourself see what we all see."

* * *

 _Hi all! Hope you enjoyed Part III. I have to admit, I had writer's block there for a bit, which is why I wrote so many one-shots (shameless plug: check them out by heading over to my profile page!). Anyway, I enjoyed writing the interaction between Natasha and Clint, and I really like how much these scenes tie back to earlier ones in this story and ones in "Hide & Seek." Oh and there's a fair amount of foreshadowing just to keep you on your toes haha. _

_I would LOVE to hear what you think. Not going to lie, I kind of lost the motivation to keep writing this when my one-shots got more play than it did, so please drop a review if you like it. Until next time. ~Moore12_


End file.
